


With Ashes and Soot

by ashandcas (ashriddle4)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Cas, Angst, Blow Job, Christmas, Dean and Sam non-canon age difference, Drunk John Winchester, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Santa Cas, Smut, Virgin Castiel, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashriddle4/pseuds/ashandcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean discovers that the Santa Claus of fable and myth is nothing like he's depicted. He's young, he's beautiful and he's an actually an angel named Castiel. When Dean and Cas's relationship changes from friendship to more, holding onto each other may destroy everything else they care about, including Christmas itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Ashes and Soot

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a cracky smutty one-shot. There's almost nothing of that fic left. It's going to be posted in probably two parts and the final part will be up before Christmas. The current tags are just for the first part - it's going to get smuttier in the second part.

Part 1

 

Dean crept down the stairs carrying his old baseball bat like a weapon. He’d heard rattling and banging in the living room and fear had shot through his veins. Nothing mattered more than protecting Sam though so Dean was prepared for a fight.

Near the white-lit Christmas tree, decorated with homemade popcorn garland and dried applesauce ornaments, kneeled a thin man with a head of black hair wearing a white woven shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Charcoal grey suspenders crossed his muscled back and angled in to his waist. His pants were deep blood red denim that were tucked into soft leather boots.

“You have two seconds to get out of here or I’m calling the cops.” Dean tightened his grip on the baseball bat.

The intruder stood and turned, rotating slowly on his heels. He looked Dean up and down, his eyes deliriously shimmery and blue. Almost unreal. “And reporting what? A delivery.”

Dean slowly began to lower the baseball bat. Something had washed over him, a comfort, a presence. “Who are you?” Dean asked with trepidation.

“My name is Castiel,” the intruder said smoothly, rubbing his very short dark beard. “You probably know me by my more common names. Kris Kringle. Saint Nicholas. Santa Claus.”

Dean guffawed. If he didn’t have robber in his house, he had a lunatic. “You’re Santa? Santa has a long white beard and a…belly like a bowl full of jelly. He’s not-“

The man straightened his back, focused that laser gaze on Dean. “Not what, Dean?”

_Mesmerizing. Dazzling. Beautiful. What?_

Dean shook his head. “How do you know my name?”

“Castiel” reached into the pocket of his tight _too tight_ red pants and removed a folded piece of notebook paper. He opened it up and read the words.

“Dear Santa, I don’t want a lot for Christmas this year. I mean, I wouldn’t mind a bike if it’s not too much trouble, seeing as you have elves and all. But what I really want for Christmas this year is something for my big brother Dean. See, he’d never write to you because he doesn’t believe in things like magic and flying reindeer and, well, you. Anyway, I try really hard and love him and he loves me, but he’s lonely. My Christmas wish this year is that Dean won’t be so lonely anymore. I know your elves can’t make that in your workshop, but you’re Santa and you have magic and I had to ask. Best wishes, Sam.”

Dean’s mouth went dry and he was staring back at this Castiel. This unearthly thing from which this shaky sort of power radiated and tied itself impossibly around Dean even with the distance between them.

“I know some toys your elves could make that would help me with my loneliness.” Dean forced a daring little smirk. _You’re deflecting with humor, Dean._ That’s what Charlie would say if she were here.

Sam had written that. He just knew it was real and that Sam _had_ because Sam _knew_. Despite their fourteen year age gap (Sam had been “an accident”), Sam could always read Dean. It stood to reason. Dean had raised Sam since he was four (he was eight now) and Dean was eighteen and Mom died in a fire and Dad got in the car after half a bottle of Jack. Not that Dad wasn’t alive – he _was._

“Dean.” There was an edge of annoyance to Cas’s voice that afforded Dean a sense of accomplishment.

“Yes, Santa?”

Dean expected another quip, but instead was met with the soft, snow-like quality of the man’s voice. “Castiel. Please call me Castiel.” Dean swore Castiel was blushing.

“Yes, Cas?” Dean corrected himself.

The man, that’s what Dean guessed he was in one way or another, glanced down at his well-worn leather boots. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Cas looked back up at him, holding Dean again in that steady, unlikely stare. “That I can’t fulfill Sam’s wish.”

A warmth pooled gently at the edges of Dean’s growing smile. He wasn’t sure why, but the need to comfort Cas overcame him. “What are you talking about? That’s a bike, right there, under the tree.”

Dean wasn’t kidding. Just at base of the pine they’d picked up from the local Christmas tree farm was a shiny orange bike – Sam’s favorite color. That wasn’t in the letter.

Cas glanced back at it, gifting his own small smile. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he whispered.

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

With that, Cas lifted the old burlap sack that had been hidden behind him and ducked into the fireplace. Dean could hardly believe his eyes when Cas lifted through the chimney. Dean ran to the window, pulled it open and stuck his head out into the cold. He heard the wintery tinkle of bells, the sound of hooves and the sight of a sleigh led by eight reindeer cutting through the starry night.

 

. . .

 

Next Christmas, Dean heard clomping downstairs. It was much later than the year before, about an hour before the sun came up. Dean hurried downstairs, wearing a loose black t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. Last year, he’d just been wearing boxers and a sleeveless undershirt. Thinking back on it, that sure as hell wasn’t enough clothes.

For a moment, Dean was afraid it wouldn’t be Castiel. That it would be Sam up early. Sam who still believed in Santa Claus, but Dean felt his little brother was hanging to the last thread of his faith on the subject. Meanwhile, Dean had found a whole new reason to believe. Still there he was. Santa Claus, Castiel.

“Merry Christmas,” Dean said.

Cas turned around, dressed just as Dean remembered him. White shirt, suspenders, red pants and leather boots, except this time he was wearing a long grey overcoat.

“Hello, Dean.

“Nice coat.”

Cas grabbed awkwardly at it. “Oh yes. I just came from Chicago. It’s very cold there.” He looks down at his coat and its suddenly gone. “You made me cookies.”

“Yeah, uh, Sam and I did. I mean we made them in general, but I left some out. Just in case.”

“I’ve got some time,” Cas said. “Sit down. Have some with me.”

Dean nodded and sat down on his leather couch and Cas sat beside him. Only six inches maybe between them. Dean’s heart started beating faster, his hands sweating and he wasn’t even going to go there, to try and explain it.

Cas grabbed an ugly looking wreath-frosted cookie from the tray and took a bite. Dean took one that looked like a snowman after two days in the sun. They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments and then began to talk, “So does the Easter bunny exist too?” Dean asked.

Castiel laughed. “No. There’s a tooth fairy though – at least in theory. Her name is actually Hannah.”

“Jack Frost?”

“Yes. Gabriel.”

“Father Time?”

“Michael.”

Dean leaned back and looked over at Cas. “Wait. Castiel? Hannah? Gabriel? Michael? Your names…” Dean swallowed. “What _are_ you?”

Cas took a deep breath and shook gently. There was rustling sound and then something soft and warm behind Dean. Dean nearly fell off his couch.

“ _Wings_? You’re a-“

“An angel. Yes, Dean.”

“If you can fly, what’s with the reindeer?” Dean asked.

Cas chuckled and it was probably, Dean realized, a result of that being the first question Dean asked a very real angel. Not for the secrets of the universe, not about God, about reindeer.

“I didn’t used to, but I thought, when the humans came up with the idea, well I liked it and I just sort of ran with it. I like the reindeer anyway. My job, is, in certain ways, unrelentingly solitary and I enjoy their company.”

“More than the elves?” Dean asked, still feeling the delicate touch of the white feathers against his neck. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think Cas was gliding them across his skin on purpose.

“No elves.” Cas paused. “I enjoy your company as well. Even more so than the reindeer.”

Dean’s face flushed, but he tried to ignore it. “Come on, I bet Rudolph’s a riot.”

The grin on Cas’s face faded into something sober. “Rudolph is a fictional character, Dean. I would never allow my reindeer to treat one of their fellows so cruelly. It’s despicable and hardly in the spirit of Christmas.”

“Okay, okay.” Clearly Rudolph was a sore subject.

Dean smiled and stared down at the empty plate of cookies. He’d hadn’t noticed they’d been devouring them this whole time.

“Sorry,” Cas muttered and his wings disappeared. “I had forgotten. I so rarely have them out.”

“It’s okay, Cas. I liked ‘em.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they’re um – they’re pretty…like you.”

Had Dean just said that? Did he really actually say that to Castiel who was actually Santa Clause who was actually an angel. Jeez.

“Oops,” Dean muttered. “The eggnog’s talking.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t have any eggnog.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his tired face. “That’s the problem.”

Cas suddenly stood. “I really should be going.”

“Of course,” Dean said, drowning in embarrassment and even worse, there was a hard-on between his legs.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”

Just like that, Cas was up the chimney again. (And not in the fun way). Dean flopped down on the couch. Did he? Did he actually have a _thing_ for Santa Claus? That made his life all new levels of screwed up. For Dean Winchester, that’s saying a whole damn lot.

 

. . .

 

Sam didn’t believe in Santa Claus anymore. That was his newest thing. Ten year old, going to middle school next year Sam Winchester, did _not_ believe in Santa Claus. That was kid’s stuff.

“Come on, Dean. If Santa’s so magical, why would he need reindeer to get around? Couldn’t he just poof wherever he wanted to?”

 _He could, but he_ likes _the reindeers’ company,_ Dean thinks with a smile, but of course he can’t say that.

“Besides, how does he get to every house so quickly. He’s only got like 24 hours or so depending on time zones to get to every kid on the planet. How does he do it?”

Again, Dean doesn’t reply to Sam, but he makes a mental note to ask Castiel the next time he sees him. If he sees him again.

Sam was gripping onto the fireman’s pole and swinging around it in circles like he’d done since Dean first got the job here almost six years ago now. He might not believe in Santa anymore but he was still young and floppy-haired and happy.

He didn’t have to know about the phone call Dean received from Dad’s public defender. Sam really, really didn’t need to know. It was best to keep him sheltered from all that until Dean could be certain of what was going to happen.

Dean took a deep breath and tried to relax. Eleven days and he could ask Castiel just how he managed to get to everyone’s house in one night, not to mention why presents suddenly appearing under the tree didn’t tip off parents to his existence. That one had been nagging at him ever since the first time Dean saw Cas fly up a chimney.

But eleven days later, Cas never showed. Maybe it was because Sam didn’t believe in him anymore

. . .

 

March brought the rain. Not the normal kind of rain, not a drizzle, but a downpour lasting over the weekend. Nearby streets had washed out. Their neighbor Missouri had called to say her basement flooded. Dean had offered to let her stay with them, but there would’ve been no way she could have even made it a block over.

They were experiencing a flood, a true blue natural disaster, and there was little anyone could do about it, well except the fire department. Captain Singer had told Dean not to come in to work, though Dean had said he would. He’d find someone to watch Sam, but the truth was the wasn’t really anyone who could get there. So Dean had to sit home while his friends and colleagues were helping the community. He felt a bit useless, but that didn’t mean Dean didn’t enjoy the twelve games of Mario Kart he’d just played with his little brother, who was getting good enough to occasionally beat him.

“Up for another round?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “Nah, man, I’m beat.”

Dean looked at the clock. It was nearly 11 pm. When Sam stood up and walked to his bedroom, Dean grabbed the old pizza box off the counter and walked into the kitchen. He was cramming it into the trashcan when he heard a quick flap behind him. Dean turned and gasped.

“Cas?”

It was. It was clearly Castiel, but his eyes were ringed a blackish-purple and his hair was a disheveled mess. It was spring and he was still dressed like he did in winter sans grey overcoat.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asked.

Cas was breathing heavily and staring directly at Dean. His eyes were still blue but Dean couldn’t help but find them incredibly average in an oddly comforting way.

Cas still wasn’t answering Dean.

“Are you all right?” Dean asked.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said.

“For what?”

“For not showing on Christmas.”

Dean let out an awkward chuckle. “Uh, that’s okay, buddy. It’s your busiest night of the year and it’s not like we made, um, a date or oh I mean a plan.”

“A plan?”

Dean nodded. “Once. Yes, it’s not like we made a plan.”

Cas seemed off, jittery, he started pacing across the tile in Dean’s kitchen. He ran a hand through his hair and gripped hard.

“Cas.”

“Something’s wrong with me.”

“What?”

“I can’t breathe. My hands get all…sweaty. My heart it beats without a steady rhythm. My mouth goes dry. And every time I’m – it’s why I didn’t come on Christmas.”

Dean stepped closer to Cas, putting a comforting hand on his elbow. Cas stared down at Dean like he’d stabbed him, but Cas made no attempt to move away.

“I know that the time I spend here on earth. I know that I am affected by it. That’s it’s only normal, but I never thought. This is. It’s _too_ much.”

“I want to help, man, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why didn’t you come on Christmas? Were you feeling too sick?”

Cas shook his head and pulled away from Dean. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I want something I can’t want.”

Dean’s heart is thrumming in his throat. One wrong move and it’s going to beat out of his mouth and fall on the floor.

“What do you want?” Dean’s voice is low now. It’s gruff and labored, flavored by a lust he can’t _just can’t_ acknowledge.

Before Dean can do anything to stop it, not that he would have because let’s face it, but before he could think about it, Cas’s hands were gripping onto his flannel shirt and he was crushing their lips together.

Dean froze at first, unsure what to do with the contact. Hard and wet, a mess of teeth, lips, tongue. God, he tasted like peppermint and starlight, but he revved something inside Dean that burned and consumed, like rum, like whiskey, like scotch.

Dean’s hands gripped Cas’s face, feeling the foreign stubble beneath his calloused hands. He had never kissed a man before, had considered it once or twice, but he’d never. Now that had seemed like a stupid, stupid decision.

Because where the women he knew were careful, were exact, Cas was all hunger, all muscle and thirst. A hot and heavy tongue found its way into Dean’s mouth and Dean pushed at it with his own. He was sliding into this, slipping into the insanity around him and he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Not with Cas’s mouth on his mouth, his hands on Dean’s body. Those strong fingers were catching on the waistband of the Dean’s jeans. He was pathetically, achingly hard. It took every ounce of strength Dean could muster not to grab Cas’s hand and press it between Dean’s own legs.

Cas stumbled back, away from Dean. His mouth was slick with spit, his lips bright red and slightly swollen. That angel was breathtaking, debauched, lovely and it had been Dean’s doing.

“Holy shit, Cas,” Dean breathed.

Cas just stared back at him with a look Dean could only describe one way. _Fear._ Just like that, Cas disappeared without a trace from Dean’s kitchen.

. . .

_Dear Cas,_

_We never got a chance to talk about what happened, you know, “the incident” in the kitchen…where you kissed me and then I kissed you and then you left. But you probably knew that was the incident. I don’t know, man._

_I get that you’re an angel. I get that kissing and all that. It’s not for you. It was something you tried and you didn’t like it. I get that and if now, I don’t know, if now you can’t stand to be around me I guess I understand, but if you still want to be, you know, friends or holiday pals or whatever we are, I’m here._

_Yours,_

_Dean Winchester_

Dean addressed it Mr. Santa Claus, North Pole and put it in the mailbox. He didn’t know what to do and that was what Sam had always done. It clearly worked at least once.

. . .

This was the worst Christmas Eve Dean had had in a long time. His head was pounding, Sam wasn’t speaking to him and had stormed out and gone to his friend Jess’s. Dad’s public defendant had called with “good news”.

Apparently, John Winchester had become the prison rat and spent the last six years getting dirt on the other guys and giving it over to the police. When his parole came up, he got approved. January 15th, their father was coming home.

“He killed two people, Dean,” Sam had shouted.

“It was an accident.” It _was._ Dad had been upset about Mom’s death. He’d had too much to drink. He’d driven the 1967 Impala. The one he and Dean had rebuilt until it shined and purred. He’d crashed it into an oncoming mini van, killed the driver and the front seat passenger, left the two kids in car seats alive and parentless. Dean felt bile rise in his throat.

“He’s a drunk.”

“He was upset about mom.”

Sam laughed without humor. “I know the truth. I overheard you talking to Captain Singer. Dad was a drunk long before Mom died in that fire.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I don’t want him living here. I don’t want him ruining everything.”

“He’s our father!”

“Stop making excuses for him. He _killed_ Mom.”

Rage seized Dean’s limbs like heavy sheets of ice. “Get the fuck out.”

Sam paused a moment then looked at Dean. “I’m going to Jess’s,” he said icily and then stormed out of the house. Dean had never spoken to Sam that way, not once. He sounded like John and the thought made Dean physically ill. He’d stumbled to the refrigerator and reached for a beer, but when his hands touched the cold glass, he couldn’t bring himself to drink. Not like this. That was too far.

Instead, Dean threw back some Ibuprofen without food or water (which is a terrible idea for your stomach) and crawled into bed. He woke to the sound of his bedroom door, squeaking open.

“Sam?” Dean muttered.

“Uh, no. It’s Castiel.”

Dean blinked a few times and then rolled over onto his back. “Cas?”

“You said that we could be, uh, holiday pals.”

Dean smiled, but it was tired and sad. “Yeah, holiday pals.”

“What’s wrong?” Cas asked.

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m fine. I’m great, Snowflake.” Dean gave a little snort.

Cas just gave him a look and then rolled his eyes.

“I screwed up with Sam. It’s Christmas and he’s not even here.”

Cas timidly sat down on the edge of the bed. “Your brother loves you. Whatever happened, he’ll forgive you…but you know that, don’t you? It’s something else.”

Dean let out a shaky breath. He opened his mouth to try to form words, but nothing came out. He tried again and again and his tongue just felt heavy and useless, eventually Dean just hung his head.

Cas scooted closer to Dean on the bed and his lips pulled into a small and caring smile. He touched his pointed and middle finger to Dean’s temple.

“Let me,” Cas said. “Let me in.”

Dean wasn’t sure exactly what to do, but he released a soft breath and leaned into Cas’s touch. Somehow Dean knew what Cas was doing. He was reading his mind. Cas pulled away, the mental connection between them disintegrating

Dean cringed and waited for it. Waited for the _I’m sorry, you poor thing, I can’t imagine_ or even worse _at least, your father’s alive, at least you have Sam, at least you have your health, at least, at least, at least, it could’ve been worse_ and God you wouldn’t think people would do it, but there are people who bring up _starving children in Africa._ Like hey, Dean, buck up – at least you’re not a “starving child in Africa” whatever the hell that means. Dean is already angry when Cas says,

“You are so strong, Dean. So brave. You’re so, so full of love. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Cas voice is a quiet whisper in the dark of Dean’s bedroom. Dean’s whole body is burning with some confusing mixture between pride and shame.

“May I,” Cas let out a shaky breath. “May I hold you, Dean?”

Dean swallowed, his throat aching and he slides down flat in the bed. Cas toes off his boots and slides in beside Dean. Cas smells like those fake logs people burn and it reminds Dean of another time. A happier one. Dean buries his face in Cas’s chest, slots his head underneath Cas’s chin and lets himself be held. He’ll deal with the fallout later.

 

. . .

 

Things weren’t easy when Dad came home. To Sam he was a total stranger. He was a stranger in many ways to Dean as well. Dad was gruffer than he was before prison and that was saying something. He had a tattoos all across his arms and scars on his skin. There was so little Dean knew about the man now.

Sam rarely came home anymore. He stayed at school late, joined drama club, hung out with his friends. So mostly it was Dean and his father alone, shackled by a silence neither one of them knew how to escape.

Part of Dad’s probation was that he couldn’t drink and that he had to have a job. He found a job as a janitor at a nearby office building, but he hated it. Dad, who had been a US Marine, who had been a lot of things when he was sober, was now a shell of that man and Dean didn’t know how to fix him. How to fix Sam. How to fix anything,

Dean’s entire universe had focused on this one point, on John Winchester, and everything else and everyone’s else’s problems had turned into a fuzzy blur that seemed more hallucination than reality. That was until a late Friday night when Castiel popped into his bedroom.

“Hey,” Dean said, “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m- it’s difficult. I’m managing.”

“How’s Sam?”

“Don’t see him much.”

“I’m sorry.” Cas was looking down; his face was flushed. Dean’s eyes raked over the rest of him. There was a slight bulge in Cas’s pants. Dean swallowed.

“That he only reason you came here?” Dean said with a timid laugh.

He ran his hand threw his hair. Dean couldn’t help but be reminded of how Cas had acted before he’d kissed Dean in the kitchen.

“I want to make you feel better. I want to try.”

Dean just furrowed his brow. He had no idea what to say to that. No idea what Cas meant, but he was crossing the room toward Dean and suddenly and quite inexplicably Cas was kneeling on the rug, his face inches away from Dean’s (thankfully denim-covered) dick.

Cas, who was dressed in that vaguely Santa-esque way, touched the button of his jeans. Dean flew back, panicking, trying to create as much distance between them as he could.

“Not like that- just _no_ Cas.”

“Oh,” Cas said, his face turning bright red. “I’m…I thought-“

His eyes were so wide, surreal and inhuman as they were the first night Dean met him. Cas had that grace to him that was unlike anything Dean had ever experienced, a shimmering bolt of ethereal innocence he could not be responsible for corrupting.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” are the words that tripped out of Dean’s mouth.

Cas stood up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re confused and you said it yourself, being on earth affects you and this isn’t what you want. You’re not. I can’t. _I can’t._ Not to something like you.”

Cas’s body went rigid, his face contorting in an angry and not at all attractive way. It made Dean feel a little safer. “Something like me?” his voice was tense.

“You know, man, you’re an angel. You’re fucking Santa Claus-“

“ _Stop,_ ” Cas bit. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m made of glass. Like I’m a shimmery bulb on a Christmas tree you don’t want to break. Don’t look a me like I’m a damn _child,_ Dean.” Cas was closing the distance between them, his body tense, his face and voice painted in anger.

“Cas.”

“I’m tired of it, okay? It’s tearing me apart. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be a decoration. I don’t want to be at top of your Christmas tree, Dean.” Cas took a deep breath just a few inches from Dean’s face, Dean who now backed against the bedroom wall. “I want to be here. I want to feel alive. Please, help me feel alive.”

Dean was the one who wasn’t alive anymore. Cas so close to him, Cas looking so, so real, so broken, a desperate and utterly human thing in front of him, begging for Dean, what the hell else was he supposed to do? What else could he possibly want right now?

Dean put his hands on Cas’s shoulders and Cas clenched his jaw like he was preparing for Dean to shove him back. Instead, Dean pushed Cas down. Cas went willingly and Dean’s heart beat sharp and deep at the sight of Cas kneeling in front of him.

“It’s okay,” Dean muttered. “I’m sorry. You’re real, Cas. Not glass. Not glass.” Shaking, Dean popped open his own button and zipped down his fly. He pulled out his cock and Cas sharply inhaled, his big blue eyes blinking. Dean gently gripped Cas’s cheeks, opened his jaw and pressed into Cas’s mouth.

Cas clamped down and it was hot and wet and a little too tight, but it was Cas and Cas needed this and that was all that mattered to Dean. His soft tongue swirled around the head, pressed into the slit.

He watched Cas visibly relax, his whole body become something soft and pliable – like everything was okay now that he had Dean’s dick in his mouth.

“That better, Snowflake?” He’d called Cas that before, as a joke, but he was shocked, floored with himself really, that he’d said it like this now, with sincerity, sweetness, lust. “You feel better when I put my dick in your mouth?”

Cas nodded and moaned quietly, the sound muffled by his mouth being so full. Dean hadn’t even meant for that to be dirty talk. Had just said it to be the truth and he guessed that it was, even if it was a dirty truth.

Dean cradled the back of Cas’s head, holding him in place, not that Cas was making any attempt to go. Cas started whimpering around Dean and the vibrations sent jolts of pleasure from his cock to his feet.

Cas started to suck and lick and it was good. Though certainly not the best blow job he’d ever had, it was his favorite because it was Cas. Because he’d never done this primarily for someone else. It had always been something women were willing to do, but life wasn’t a porno and they hadn’t _wanted_ the way Castiel _wants._

“Doing so good, Cas. You want to go faster for me? Yeah, just like that. You look so great on your knees for me,” Cas purred. God, he was really into Dean’s dirty praise and Cas deserved it anyway. “Your lips are beautiful stretched so I can fit.”

Wow, Dean was really saying shit he’d never thought he say, but then again he’d always been kinky.

Dean could feel the pressure building like sugared lava between his legs. “I’m gonna come in your mouth, okay? Can you swallow for me?”

Cas nodded, not letting go of him, those eyes still laser-beamed focused on Dean. Dean couldn’t look away, didn’t want to. He wanted to watch Cas drink him down. One, two, three thrusts and his orgasm was burning through him and Cas was coughing and sputtering.

Dean pulled out and dropped down, spilling a little on Cas’s chin.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Cas said quickly as if he was afraid Dean wouldn’t let him do it again. “I tried.”

“You did so good.”

There was a little dribble coming out his mouth and what was on his chin. Dean wiped it up with his thumb and pressed it into Cas’s mouth. Cas swallowed it down and then ran his tongue over his lips.

“There you go,” Dean said.

“Thank you.”

Dean looked down at Cas. He was going to unbutton his pants and return the favor, but when Dean touched Cas’s dick, he was soft. Cas pushed Dean’s hand away.

“You should come too, Snowflake.” This time Dean said it with a good humored laugh.

“I,” Cas blushed bright red, “already did.”

“ _Damn._ ”

Cas had come in his pants, untouched, with nothing but Dean’s cock in his mouth. Dean was sincerely and completely and irrevocably fucked.

 

End of Part 1

 

 

 

 


End file.
